


True Colors.

by psyleedee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Baker Castiel (Supernatural), Based on a Tumblr Post, Cute Castiel/Dean Winchester, Falling In Love, Fire, Firefighter Dean Winchester, First Meetings, Fluff, Hospitals, Injured Castiel (Supernatural), Injured Dean Winchester, Love, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Scared Castiel (Supernatural), Scared Dean Winchester, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25919809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyleedee/pseuds/psyleedee
Summary: In a world where each person has a black mark on a specific place on their skin that bursts into colours the moment their soulmate touches them over there, Castiel finds his soulmate under rather unconventional circumstances."You saved me.""Why wouldn't I?"(Based on an ancient Tumblr post.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 370





	True Colors.

**Author's Note:**

> this one shot is based on a Tumblr fic (pic given below) and i really wanted to try my hand at firefighter!Dean and baker!Castiel. hope you guys like this little fic!

"That will be four dollars, and sixty nine cents."

Castiel smiles, handing the large brown bag, filled with pastries, to the woman before him who hands him the change with a smile.

"Just keep the single cent, it doesn't make a difference."  
She shrugs with a polite smile, and although reluctant, Castiel takes it, knowing she's right, and a single cent doesn't make a difference. He nods in agreement, and bids her a goodbye. She leaves through the front door, and with a relieved sigh, Castiel walks around the counter, wipes his sweaty hands on his apron, and flips the **_OPEN_** sign to **_CLOSED_**.

It has been a hectic day, what with the catering orders, the usual Friday buzz, and their shortage of employees.

 _Honey Angel_ is a new, but upcoming bakery in the mundane town of Lebanon, Kansas, and Castiel is proud of how far he's brought it, all on his own. Yes, Gabriel does help sometimes, but he seems far more content running his own strip club across town.

It's half past eight when Castiel wraps up, and his last customer for the day has already left. For once, Castiel cannot wait to fall into his soft, memory foam bed, and sleep until morning comes. He's tired, groggy and ready to say _fuck off_ to the next person who bothers him.

All he needs to do now, is get a batch of bread into the oven, the dough already risen, so he can have fresh bread for the morning to stock.

With the lights in the bakery dim, he walks into the bright lit kitchen at the back, and first, across to the sink, where he leans down, and splashes some water on his face. He grabs a napkin and dabs his face dry, before looking up at the mirror. With his nimble fingers, he reaches back to untie the apron, and it falls open around his waist. He unties the strap around his neck, and pulls the apron off himself, flinging it onto an empty counter beside the sink.

His shirt is drenched with sweat, partly owing to the heat in the bakery. It helps with the fermentation of the dough and keeping the goods fresh, yes, but it also has Castiel sweating like a pig. So, he pulls his shirt off, and flings it over his shoulder. He walks over to the corner of the kitchen, away from the empty counters, and grabs his backpack, the one with a spare t-shirt in it. He tosses his dirty shirt into the bag, but not before pulling out a fresh, grey t-shirt to change into.

As he dries himself with the napkin, his eyes wander down to the pitch, black handprint on his chest.

His soulmate mark.

It's always intrigued him.

Growing up, he'd seen his friends with soulmate marks on their hands, on the face, on their arms, on their fingers.

And then there was Castiel. With his mark on his chest.

It had confounded him at first. What such circumstance could he possibly fall into, where his soulmate's first touch would be to his chest? A whole palm at that? 

His mother had said it could be at a beach, where he usually walked bare chested, but in all his past visits to the beach, he'd found no one who'd touch his bare chest or even shove him in the slightest.

Of course, his father was of a different opinion. He told Castiel once, that he thought Castiel's soulmate, whoever they may be, might be someone dangerous. That thought had haunted Castiel throughout his puberty, but over the years, as he'd grown stronger, more vigilante, so he'd dismissed it as his father warning him for his own sake.

Many of Castiel's friends found it amusing to speculate how Castiel would meet his soulmate. Maybe at a pool, maybe at a bar, maybe during a one-night stand (Gabriel's ingenuity, as always), or perhaps, in a fight.

Yet, Castiel has not a single clue.

He dismisses his thoughts, and pulls his grey shirt over his chest, eyes bleary and his vision clouding with drowse. He yawns, and sets his backpack away, walking over to the wrapped bowls of dough. He grabs a few tins, divides the dough into them all, and pops the into the oven.

Bored, and having nothing else to do, Castiel slips down against a wall in the kitchen, reminding himself to remove the bread from the oven after it pings. He grabs a book from his bag, and turns to the dog-earred page.

A few seconds pass, and Castiel finds his thoughts running astray.

A few minutes pass, and his eyes, heavy and lidded, droop with slumber.

A while later, Castiel is fast asleep against the wall, dead to the world, unbothered, fatigued, and near comatose.

Which is why the faint odour of smoke fuming from the over never tingles his nostrils.

* * *

A loud, piercing buzzer rings through the kitchen, which has Castiel shuffling in his seat. He curls up against the wall. The room is warm. So warm. And then there's the smell. The familiar, lingering smell of smoke. He sniffs the air, eyes still shut, eyebrows furrowed. Is this a dream? Must be. He's nice and cozy against the wall. He sniffs the air again, but this time, his instincts wake up, and kick him into consciousness.

At once, Castiel flutters his eyes open, only to be wracked with a throaty, burning fit of coughs.

He grabs at his chest, beating it once, twice, thrice, trying to open his eyes, only for them to sting with a mighty ache, as if they've been pierced with needles over and over again. Through narrow, hooded eyes, he notices the darkness in the kitchen. Grey, thick, smoke plumes through the sky, and tears roll down Castiel's face from the itching in his eyes.

Through the smoke, he can see, thick, red flames of fire bursting through the ovens.

_No. No._

_How could he be so careless?_

Castiel pants, gasping for breath in the smoke-filled kitchen, struggling to reach for the door to his bakery.

_A fire. This is a fire._

_No. His life. His bakery. His passion. Everything will crumble to ruins._

_How could he be so irresponsible?_

Tears stream down Castiel's face, and he tries to crawl over to the door to the outside of the bakery, only for a raging spray of sparks to shower over him. He lets out a choked cry, banging at the walls, screaming, _help, help, please, somebody,_ but his throat is burning, he can feel his chest constrict, fill with smoke, and his head swaying. He flails around, crying, screaming, yelling for help, but it never comes.

His screams die down.

The fire rages on.

Smoke fills his lungs.

He feels it at last— his eyes slipping shut, lips parted, hands falling to the side, head thrumming with pain— this must be the end.

For a moment, everything stills. The fire burns, furious. The smoke floats through the air in dark clouds.

_This is it. It's over. It's all over._

And then.

He hears it.

A sound. Clattering. Thumping. Clanging. Screaming.

A man's voice. Deep. Husky. Soothing.

 _"Help,"_ he breathes out, in a last, futile attempt, but at once, there is a shadow hovering above him. His hands, as heavy as they could be, reach for the figure above him. They brush against something soft, he can't quite see through his narrow, clouded vision, but then he hears a staggering gasp above him. Something is blooming. There are colours, red, yellow, blue, green, all erupting from the figure above him.

His eyes give up on him, but he feels he man's presence linger. 

"Come back to me, baby, we got a long way to go, please, don't leave me—"  
The man is saying, and his words ring through Castiel's ears, the sheer tenderness of them urging Castiel to breathe, yet he can do nothing but lay splayed out on the floor, the man above him gasping, praying, pleading, almost crying.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes flutter open, and he catches a glimpse of gorgeous, lush, green eyes, staring down at him.

And then it's dark again.

Vaguely, he feels the man's hand, pressing into his chest, whispering to him, _come back to me please, can't lose you, please, been waiting for you, please, sweetheart, come back to me._

And then, everything goes dead silent.

* * *

Soft, rhythmic beeps fill his ears, as Castiel feels himself spiral back to the present. His eyes remain shut, not feeling it in him to open them just yet, as he breathes in.

Fresh, pure air.

Not smoke.

His eyebrows furrow, and he doesn't refrain himself from inhaling a lungful of the fresh air he finds around him.

The room is cold.

His back is laid against something soft and firm, and he can feel a pillow under his neck, fluffy and large. Atop him, he discovers the presence of something large and thin draped over his torso, down to his feet. Must be a blanket. He stirs, shoulders going lax, and grunts.

When his eyes flutter open at last, dim, white light drenches him, along with the room, and he blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice.

His head hurts.

_The fire. Smoke pluming. Losing breath. Green eyes._

He recalls it now. He'd thought it was a fever dream. But it had been real.

On his right is a machine, the tube of which is connected to his wrist. There's another machine, beeping, an ECG machine, showing the beat of his heart. He groans, and looks down at the white medical gown he's been put in. The room is silent, save for the beep of the ECG machine, but a soft groan draws his attention, and his head snaps to the other side.

Sitting on a metal bench at the side of the room, is a young, well-built fireman.

Snoring.

He's asleep.

Castiel turns on his side, watching the fireman snore gently, curled up with a thin jacket around him on the bench, when he notices something.

On the fireman's face, over his cheek, is a splotch of colours, and it seeps into his skin right below the jaw.

Hope rises in the back of Castiel's mind.

_Could he be...?_

To verify his suspicions, Castiel grabs the round collar of the hospital gown, and lifts it up, a loud gasp slipping past his lips as he stares down at his chest, eyes wide in awe.

Because on his chest, where once was a dark, black handprint, is now a plethora of colours. Blue, red, green, yellow, orange, violet, pink, grey— the list is endless. They all mingle together, as if some sort of messy painter's palette.

Only the handprint is bursting with colours, contrast to the rest of his skin, tanned and wheatish as it always is.

So it's true. That man, the man who is now curled up on the bench, his right cheek glowing with innumerable colours, is his soulmate.

Apparently, also a fireman who saved Castiel from a fire that almost killed him.

From where he's sleeping, Castiel can quietly admire the man. He's _definitely_ Castiel's type. Heck, he's hot enough to be _anyone's_ type.

Short, blondish hair, a beautiful symmetrical face, thick, black lashes, and plump, pink lips. His face is dusty from the soot, and yet, he looks exquisite. His arms are thick, broad and bulging through the black half sleeves of his shirt. His knees are pressed to his chest, and he looks like the epitome of masculine beauty.

Castiel shuts his eyes.

_Come back to me, baby, we got a long way to go, please, don't leave me—_

The man's words ring through his ear, a mantra on repeat.

_Come back to me, sweetheart._

Castiel remembers wanting in that moment, to do nothing more than simply live. To live to see the face above him. To live to hear that voice again. He may not have known it then, but his heart knew who this man was, what he would mean to Castiel.

A rustle on the bench draws Castiel's attention, and he watches now, as the fireman sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. He does so for a few more moments, before his eyes slip open.

Beautiful green eyes meet Castiel's.

His breath hitches.

"You're awake?"  
The man mumbles, his sleep-soaked voice a melody to Castiel's ears.

"Who are you?"  
Castiel asks, awestruck, dazed, intrigued— he can't explain it.

With a big yawn, the man stretches his arms out, before turning back to Castiel, blinking his round, green princess eyes at Castiel.

"M' Dean."

"Hello Dean. I'm Castiel."

"I know."

Dean smiles, tender and assuring, before he stands, the jacket on his shoulders falling to the ground, as he walks over to Castiel.

"I thought I lost you back there."  
He whispers, and his knuckles graze down Castiel's cheek. Castiel winces, now aware of the cut that he must have got during the fire.

"You saved me."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Glassy eyes stare into Castiel's, and he tries to sit up, pushing himself up with a grunt, while Dean simply holds him by the shoulder, and slips his hand into Castiel's. Castiel crosses his legs in his lap, and Dean settles down on the bed, still supporting Castiel as he lays back against the pillow.

"Is my bakery... Did it all get ruined?"  
Castiel asks at last, his eyes teary as he does, because the mere thought of losing something he's worked so hard for these past three years frightens him.

"The ovens got burnt down. Some of your kitchen ware burned. But the money, the cash register, the outside of the bakery, not a spot. We hosed everything down with water. Hopefully it'll be better soon. But hey, you don't have to think of that right now, right now you gotta' rest."  
Dean's hand rubs Castiel's shoulder, his eyes gazing into Castiel's with an emotion Castiel finds hard to put into words.

"The bakery means everything to me."

"I figured."

A silence washes over them, before Dean pulls Castiel's hand into his lap, and strokes it with his rough, calloused fingers. His bottom lip trembles, and Castiel thinks he might cry, especially given the way his eyes well up, and he sniffles softly.

"Hey," Castiel mutters, reaching up with his other hand to rub his fingers over Dean's jaw, where the blotch of colours is blooming, "-it's okay, Dean, I'm alright, trust me."

"I know, I know, s'just," Dean sniffles, wiping his palm over his face before turning to Castiel, "- you touched me, and I, I felt it, the colours. I felt my heart just, just stop for a moment. I didn't know what to do, Cas, I thought you'd, I thought you'd..."

"Die?"  
Castiel asks, barely a whisper.

Dean nods, and clutches Castiel's hand tighter against his chest. The nickname isn't lost on Castiel, and he finds he rather likes it. Their eyes don't meet, but Castiel can see the intensity in Dean's eyes. Dean on the other hand, brings Castiel's hand up, and presses his lips to it, not kissing, simply pressing.

"You saved me."

"I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't."

"You saved me, Dean," Castiel whispers, cupping Dean's jaw with his hand, and Dean turns to him at last, "- you saved me, and I don't think I can ever repay you."

Dean's eyes flicker with spirit, and he leans forward to press his forehead to Castiel's. Castiel lets him, his own eyes slipping shut as he feels Dean's breath hot against his lips.

"You promise to never leave me, and I think we can count that as repayment."

Castiel laughs, his voice hoarse from the soreness of the smoke.

"I promise."

Dean is silent for a moment, as he nods, his fingers wrapped tight around Castiel's hand. He drops a kiss onto Castiel's knuckles, a single teardrop falling onto Castiel's wrist.

"Good."


End file.
